


(History Is) A Pattern Of Timeless Moments

by Brenda



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Achilles knew his truest triumphs would never be strung together in verse to be sung at campfires, knew that no poet or </i>aoidos<i> would ever know his greatest success.  No, these conquests – the huff of Patroclus' laughter against his throat, the sharp, sea-salt taste of Patroclus' skin after a swim, the way Patroclus' eyelids fluttered after every kiss – those were Achilles' alone to cherish.  </i></p><p>Or:</p><p>Four times Achilles and Patroclus were truly happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(History Is) A Pattern Of Timeless Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lace_fingertips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lace_fingertips/gifts).



> For Lacefingertips, Happy First Yuletide!!!!

**1\. Mount Pelion**

 

Achilles was born to great prophecy, the son of a goddess, the son of a king. He was to be groomed for prominence, for immortality, for deeds worthy of legend and song. His name would be spoken in hushed reverence and lofty esteem by every king and every warrior, and every child would grow up in the immeasurable shadow of his heralded magnificence. He would one day be a constellation in the sky, resting alongside the great Orion and the great Heracles and the great Perseus, and his light would outshine them all. 

His majestic destiny was pre-ordained, his glorious fate declared the moment he was conceived. Achilles, the swift; Achilles, the fleet-footed; Achilles, the greatest warrior who ever lived. 

But for all the accolades he knew would be his for the taking like plump berries from the vine, and for all the promises of greatness his mother wove around him like an invisible cloak he would never shed, he only felt like he was someone who would one day be worthy of remembrance when Patroclus was there to witness his deeds. The true worth of his immortality could only ever be measured in the reflection of Patroclus' pure, precious gaze. 

And he only ever felt divine under the smooth, assured caress of Patroclus' hands on his trembling skin.

"What are you thinking?"

Achilles opened his eyes, met the warm copper-brown of Patroclus' eyes gazing down upon him, the irises tipped with gold, his lashes long and sooty black every time he blinked. Patroclus, his cherished Patroclus, the moon to Achilles' sun, with ebony hair falling across a high forehead, and wide cheeks ruddy with desire and happiness, his lips full and bruised from Achilles' own. He was beautiful to Achilles, the most beautiful being in all of the world, in all of the heavens, more beautiful than Apollo or Aphrodite or any of the gods. 

Achilles lifted his hand, carded nimble fingers through the silky strands of Patroclus' hair, and breathed deep. Inhaled the clean, crisp scent that was Patroclus' alone, rosemary and lemon and poppy, comforting and familiar. A scent he would know anywhere in the world, a body he would know blindfolded by touch alone, a voice he would know in a crowd. A face he wanted to wake up next to tomorrow and the day after that and a thousand thousand days after that, an eternity would not be enough time for everything he wanted.

They would be together always, their fates now woven into a single strand. Their names would be whispered together, the greatness of their deeds shared, their destinies met as one. Achilles would have it no other way.

"I was thinking that I did not want to leave the cave today," Achilles finally said, and smiled when Patroclus' gaze softened.

"Chiron won't be pleased," he replied, but made no move to get up from their shared pallet.

"I don't care," Achilles said, defiant and sure. The furs beneath him were soft and warm, and the body pressed against his own was hard and even warmer. There was nothing the world outside the cave could offer that could compare with this. What pleasure could anything else give him that would be greater than the pleasure he found in Patroclus' arms? "His disapproval would be worth the price."

"I don't care, either, if you don't," Patroclus whispered, a promise, a vow, one that bound the thread tying them together in a snug, taut line. Those soft lips brushed against his own, as light as air, and just as necessary for Achilles' survival. It seemed impossible that he'd ever known a time before the intimacy he and Patroclus shared. 

Achilles firmed his hold on Patroclus' hair and shifted, restless and hungry, beneath Patroclus' weight. "Today, there is no world outside these walls. No lessons, no obligations, nothing can touch us. Today, there is only you and only me."

The flush on Patroclus' cheeks darkened, and Achilles could feel Patroclus' length, trapped between their bodies, get even harder. "Only you and me," Patroclus repeated, and lowered his head again.

The next kiss was not so soft. 

 

**2\. The Island of Scyros**

 

Achilles was a prince, well-used to luxury, well-used to incredible privilege and wealth. He'd been surrounded by people as far back as he could remember, by fawning servants and biddable slaves, by adoring boys eager to call him friend, by adoring girls eager to call him lover. He'd had tutors and mentors, sycophants all, and a mother and father who'd both catered to his every whim. He had never known a moment's loneliness, nor had he ever doubted that he was loved above all things.

But for all the praises that fell from others' lips like honeyed wine, and for all the clamor of voices around him begging for his attention or his smile, Achilles only ever felt cherished when it was Patroclus saying his name, low and throaty and rough. And he only ever felt complete when Patroclus' arms were around him, holding him close.

Achilles' exile on Scyros had been torture the likes of which he'd never known. Without Patroclus by his side, the sun was a pale mockery of warmth, food a tasteless mockery of sustenance, and every single person around him a wooden mockery of companionship. Every day was a ceaseless monotony and every night restless and bleak without Patroclus' breath against his neck, and those beloved arms holding him close. 

Achilles trailed light fingers along Patroclus' collarbone, then down to trace over each rib. They hadn't been apart from each other all that long – only a few short weeks – but already, Patroclus' body felt and looked different to Achilles' eyes. His shoulders even broader, his chest more muscled, his legs longer. They'd both left Mount Pelion as boys still, but Patroclus had come to the island to reclaim Achilles as a man full-grown.

He made Achilles' mouth dry with desire. There would never be another, not as long as Patroclus existed. In this life or the next or in all the ones after, Achilles knew, beyond any reason or reckoning, that his heart would only beat for Patroclus alone. Their souls were as eternally entwined as their bodies were now, flushed with pleasant exertion, the sheets beneath them damp with sweat. The moon beyond the open windows of the sparsely furnished guest room loomed large, its light casting the walls in a silvery glow. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he and Patroclus were back in Phthia.

"I've missed this," he finally murmured, lifting his lashes to meet dark eyes that shone as warm as summer and with a light as priceless as any rare jewel. Achilles basked the warmth of that gaze, the parts of him still left cold and lonely by their separation unfurling like flower petals following the sun.

Patroclus grabbed Achilles' hand, pressed a fervent, desperate kiss to his palm. "As have I," he said. Even his voice was lower. The rough rumble of it was more intoxicating than any wine.

"Never again," Achilles swore, cemented the promise with a kiss to Patroclus' breastbone, just above the steady beat of his heart.

"Never again," Patroclus echoed, lifted Achilles' chin to brush his mouth across Achilles' own. "If I hadn't gone to Peleus and demanded to know where you'd been taken..." His voice wavered, then stilled. He did not need to finish. 

Achilles still believed, deep in his heart, that his mother would have eventually told Patroclus where to find him. She knew how much Patroclus meant to him, how much his happiness depended on Patroclus' presence. And if she did not have such an understanding before today, he'd made sure of it in their last conversation. There would be no talk of separating them again, he would not hear it. Where Achilles went, Patroclus would be alongside him, as was his right as _Therapon_ , the only companion Achilles would ever want.

"I would have found my way back to you, no matter the cost. _Áκοίτας_ ," he said, and willed Patroclus to believe the words, to truly _hear_ them in his heart of hearts. He wanted there to be no doubt about where his true loyalties lay. 

He knew he'd gotten his wish when supple arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. He lowered his head, teeth scraping at Patroclus' jaw, and felt the answering moan reverberate between them. The night was still young and so were they, and they had so much lost time to make up for. Achilles didn't want to waste another moment on what if and regret.

He wanted the night to last forever.

 

**3\. The Beaches of Troy**

 

Achilles was a warrior, a general, a proven leader of men. _Aristos Achaion_. His feats were lauded, his exploits legendary. His name was known throughout all of Greece, throughout Troy and the lands beyond. His prowess in combat was unmatched, his skill with a spear or sword unrivaled. Achilles, the graceful; Achilles, the brilliant ;Achilles, the miraculous.

But for all the spoils of war that were his to claim at the end of the day, for all the wealth he'd accumulated over the years in raids and battle, and for all of the riches and praise that tumbled from the other men and generals like ripened fruit dropping from the trees, the only time Achilles felt true victory was when he could bring a smile to Patroclus' face. When he could make Patroclus forget, if only for a day or even an hour, that they were in the middle of a war. When he could make Patroclus forget that there was a prophecy foretelling their doom, the weight of it ever present, casting a black shadow even on the brightest of days.

For them, there was no talk of going home after. Their war would never end.

Achilles knew his truest triumphs would never be strung together in verse to be sung at campfires, knew that no poet or _aoidos_ would ever know his greatest success. No, these conquests – the huff of Patroclus' laughter against his throat, the sharp, sea-salt taste of Patroclus' skin after a swim, the way Patroclus' eyelids fluttered after every kiss – those were Achilles' alone to cherish. And he hoarded every one like a miser, selfish as always where Patroclus was concerned.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Patroclus asked, his head pillowed on Achilles' thigh. Above them, the sun was almost at the zenith, the sky was the soft blue of robins' eggs, and the clouds were white wisps floating in the gentle breeze. There was no battle today, and he and Patroclus had taken full advantage of the respite, had packed bread and cheese and headed out to the green fields near the river, just the two of them. They'd never needed anyone else.

"What could possibly bother me on such a day?" Achilles asked, grinning down at Patroclus' upturned face.

Patroclus returned the smile, and grabbed Achilles' hand, lacing their fingers together over his chest. "It _is_ a beautiful day."

"Much too beautiful for brooding," Achilles teased, hoping to coax out another smile. 

"I'm not brooding."

" _Patroclus._ " It was a mild reproach, but the resultant sigh seemed to come from the depths of Patroclus' very being. 

"It truly doesn't bother you that we're at the mercy of the gods and their whims and schemes and divinations? That they've decided your fate and mine already and there's nothing we can do about it?"

How was it possible that Patroclus still did not understand, even after all these years? Achilles clutched at both of Patroclus' hands – hands that were patient and steady and gentle, yet strong enough to stitch wounds and heal injuries, strong enough to tether even the quick Achilles to his side with nothing more than a light touch – and summoned his best, most blinding grin. 

"Why would it bother me?" he asked. "The gods saw fit to give me you. For that, I would forgive them any capriciousness or scheme."

For that gift, Achilles would accept whatever the Fates or the gods had in store for him.

He felt, rather than heard, Patroclus' sharp intake of breath, and barely had time to brace himself before Patroclus scrambled to his knees and was upon him. Then Patroclus' thighs were bracketing his hips, and he was pushed to the blanket by the weight of Patroclus' body, their lips fused together, moans and heartbeats mingling.

"Swear it," Patroclus demanded, eyes dancing with lust and joy and so much life that Achilles' own breath caught. The sunlight beating down upon him burnished dark hair to a shine, caressed smooth skin like a lover. In that moment, Patroclus looked every bit as much a child of the gods as Achilles himself.

"I swear it," Achilles promised, and pulled Patroclus to him again, the next kiss rough and fevered and hungry. He felt like he could devour Patroclus whole.

Achilles savored the sweetness of impatient hands dragging his tunic up over his head. There was no achievement on the battlefield that could ever compete with the way Patroclus yielded himself, body and spirit, to Achilles' touch. Let Agamemnon and the others squabble over goblets and women and jewels – Achilles had the brightest and best treasure of them all, and the only thing he'd ever had to do to earn it was surrender his heart.

It was a small enough price to pay.

 

**4\. The Banks of the River Styx**

 

Achilles was a champion, a hero, his magnificence and courage remembered and feted by all. His name would never be forgotten, his legend would live on in perpetuity. Every bit of glory his mother had promised, every bit of fame the Fates had foretold, were his to savor in the afterlife. His exalted destiny was fulfilled, his immortality assured.

But here, on the banks of the River Styx, endlessly pacing and waiting and hoping, he was merely a mortal, a man like any other. A soul rent in half, desperate to find its mate. Here in this desolate place, in this never-ending twilight of gloom and desolation, his pride was useless, his rage impotent, his fame forgotten. What use was immortality if it was his alone, if Patroclus' name wasn't sung alongside his? What use was glory if Patroclus himself wasn't with him to share in it?

"Patroclus, where are you," he wondered, scouring the newly dead for any sight of that familiar form, that beloved face. Had his last wishes gone unheeded? Was Patroclus trapped somewhere he could not follow? The thought of an afterlife without Patroclus was anathema, a torment beyond all reckoning.

There could be no benefit to his great deeds, not if the price was his solitude. He would petition Lord Hades himself if needs be to be reunited with Patroclus, wherever he was. No trial or labor would be too great to regain what was rightfully his.

"Achilles..."

His body froze. His heart stilled.

He knew that voice. He would know that voice in a crowd, he would know that voice in life or in death or here at the edge of the Underworld. A wave of relief swept over him, so profound it threatened to send him to his knees. He was off and running the next instant, his swift feet eating the ground in long strides. Never had he been so glad of his godhead than in that moment.

"Patroclus." The name tore through him like thunder, and a sob wrenched itself from his throat when Patroclus, tall and proud and unmistakably, beautifully _real_ came, panting and winded, to a halt in front of him. They fell on each other, tears falling unheeded as they clung tight and close, not even a sliver of air coming between them.

"I thought I'd lost you," Patroclus was saying, desperate and low, his breath hitching on every word, "I thought you'd gone on to Elysium, that you'd crossed..."

Achilles stopped him with a kiss, savored the feel of those soft lips upon his, and gave his thanks to all of the gods on Olympus and elsewhere for returning Patroclus to him. "Patroclus, my love." The words were light, but came from the depths of Achilles' soul. " _Philtatos._ I would have waited for eternity for you."

Patroclus nodded, throat bobbing with the movement. His eyes were still far too troubled for such a joyous occasion. "I'm sorry, Achilles, I'm so sorry," he said, when it should have been Achilles begging forgiveness for his foolish pride and misplaced anger. "I tried to get here as soon as I could, but –"

"Shhh." He pressed light kisses to each of Patroclus' eyelids, tasted the tears still clinging like dewdrops to long eyelashes. "You're here now. Nothing else matters."

Gentle hands ran down his shoulders and arms, the hands of a healer, stitching Achilles back together one touch at a time. "Your mother..."

"What of her?" If she'd kept Patroclus from him...

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for her," Patroclus said, soft and wondering. "It was only through her mercy that I was released from my suffering in the realm above."

Achilles' anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He'd always hoped that, one day, his mother would see Patroclus as he did. Best of the Myrmidons, best of all Greeks.

"I'm glad," he whispered, and leaned close, breathing in that simple, clean scent. Poppy and lemon and rosemary, a balm to his senses, a familiar comfort. His Patroclus, finally returned to him. Happiness flooded through him in a pure, white light, warmed him from his toes to his fingertips, from the depths of his heart to the surface of his skin.

"As am I," Patroclus said, and the joyous sound of his laughter rang through the banks of the river, the echo cutting through the gloom and despair, and filling the cavern with radiance and wonder.

Their lips met again, and again still. They lingered over each kiss, murmuring to each other in the language of lovers. A language meant for only them, for Achilles and Patroclus, a single entity with two heartbeats.

"Are you ready to cross the river?" Achilles asked much later, pressing their foreheads together. Wrapped his arms around that slender waist and held as tight as he could. He was never letting go again.

"If you are. Wherever you go, I go," Patroclus said, and the ring of gold around his eyes shone bright, the shadows that had plagued him the last few years of their mortal lives finally put to rest.

"Together," Achilles promised, and meant it with every fiber of his being. Only Patroclus, forever.

"Together," Patroclus echoed, and they shared another smile before setting off to find Charon. Elysium and an eternity of tranquility and peace awaited. A promise of endless light and laughter and kisses, and Patroclus by his side where he was always meant to be. 

This was the only reward Achilles would ever need.

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to G. for the beta, and to Ignipes for the brainstorming session - sorry I didn't wind up using any of our ideas, but the talk helped.


End file.
